


Heart Got Teeth

by Krasimer



Series: I Walked With You Once [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angels are assholes, Angels vs. Demons, Backstory, Bad angels go in the naughty room, Demons Are Assholes, Dreams and Nightmares, Evil Michael, Fallen Angel Lucifer, Fallen Angels, God Complex, Heaven & Hell, Heaven vs Hell, Identity Issues, M/M, Michael Is Insane, Michael is a Little Shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2020-11-28 14:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20967842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krasimer/pseuds/Krasimer
Summary: Gabriel Fell.But before that, there were others. Hundreds of others. Far too many.And that is the crux of the problem.There is corruption in Heaven.





	1. Walking Through History

There was something happening in Heaven.

Barakiel perched somewhere, overlooking the new humans. Their beginnings were rough, their ancestors kicked out from the Garden. Adam and Eve had been so new when they had been tempted into eating the fruit. He was being required, now, to help create a storm to punish them for something, for some transgression in the eyes of his Father.

She had, according to Metatron’s orders, demanded that the humans be punished.

He didn’t know why.

But it was not his place to question Her. His Father knew what She was doing – She was the overseer of all, the Creator, the one who decided where each and every aspect of Creation went. Barakiel was simply an angel, the leader of the ones who were to become Guardians. His fellows were to see to humanity directly. They would watch over them, the new and the green angels that they were, and see to their injuries. Their fears.

Their hopes.

They were to protect humanity and keep them safe. Never to interfere with their decisions – humanity had gained free will, after all, and they needed to keep that.

Barakiel and the others would merely be there to watch over them.

The boat was being built as he watched, however, and this was not the time to have Guardians down among the humans. The world was to be drowned. He was to help with the storm. The idea of it tugged at his soul, hurt him in ways he could not name. He did not feel as if humanity deserved to be harmed like this, but it was not his place to go against those orders.

He could sense some of his Brothers and Sisters on Earth, their auras reaching out to him like a magnet.

There were less than there should have been.

A familiar one was coming close, however, and he looked up with as much of a smile as he could manage. “Omael,” he reached out a hand for his friend to take, his forced smile turning into a real one when Omael pressed a kiss to his palm.

“Barakiel,” Omael settled next to him, wrapping an arm around his waist. The two of them had only begun experiencing each other recently, physically entwining themselves. Omael’s hand slid slowly up Barakiel’s spine, his nose nudging into his shoulder. It felt like they were meant to be this way, Barakiel had said as much to Omael at the very beginning of their attachment. Humanity had words for such a relationship but he did not know how to term it, just yet. “I hear you must help drown them,” his lips were twisted into a frown as he said it.

Omael had always been so good at knowing what was bothering him.

“They are being punished for something,” Barakiel muttered. He leaned against Omael’s side,

“That seems to be all that has been done since they were created,” Omael pressed his chin into Barakiel’s shoulder, his words quiet. “Be punished for one thing or another. Be punished for a temptation caused by a demon, be punished for war, be punished for following the rules – their will is supposed to be free. That should imply that they are safe from the punishment. If you create something without limits, there are no limits to be met.”

He paused, looking down at the humans as they wrangled various creatures.

That was why he was there, after all. The species of the planet needed to be carefully guarded. If they were not, they would face extinction. “If there are no limits, there should be no anger about what they do. There is no transgression if no limits were settled.”

Barakiel held his hand, turning to kiss him softly.

When their lips met, Omael’s hands curled even tighter around Barakiel. “I fear Heaven,” he whispered. “Something is changing.”

“You fear—" Barakiel pulled away, his eyes wide. “What cause have you to fear our home?”

“The tone of our home is changing,” Omael held his hand, letting go of his waist. “Surely you have noticed it as well. Our Brothers and Sisters are missing, more and more of them leaving Heaven to wander the Earth. Our lives are shaken, our Faith is—” he stopped, clamping his mouth shut.

Barakiel stared at him, eyes wide, before looking down to the gathering below.

He could recognize Aziraphale, among the people down below. Aziraphale, who had guarded the East Gate, whose sword of flames had vanished. He was the last their Father had spoken to directly. She had become angry with them, apparently, frustrated at their various actions.

She had turned Her back on them to focus on other things.

Supposedly.

“Our Faith is misplaced,” Barakiel spoke up.

Omael met his eyes, his own full of fear he could not voice. He was braver in some ways than Barakiel, but he was the one who had trouble voicing his own thoughts at times. He was no dissenter, he would not be harboring some ill intent. He definitely would not have sided with Lucifer.

So Barakiel could do nothing but trust him.

If Omael was concerned about the state of things, the ways in which their Father’s orders were being carried out, it was with good cause.

Twining both of their hands together, Barakiel nodded. “I will look into this,” he told Omael. “I will investigate as closely as I can – I will help find the cause of the unrest. As much as I am able.” He leaned in, pressing kisses to Omael’s lips, pulling him closer. “I cannot go against my current orders,” he whispered, the words almost breaking his heart. “But I will look into the truth of things.”

“Thank you,” Omael leaned their foreheads together, his hands twining through the thick curls of Barakiel’s hair. “_Thank you._”

_I would do anything for him,_ Barakiel thought. _Anything to make him happy._

They sat together, watching as humanity prepared to lose itself for the first time. So many would be lost in the drowning waters, the great flood to come.

They would watch.

They would plan.


	2. Only Thing That's Burning When The Nights Get Cold

Michael’s office was oddly stuffy when Barakiel walked in.

The Archangel himself sat at his desk, filling out paperwork of some kind. There was something about the sight of it that made Barakiel hesitate. There had been no movements from Heaven’s ranks, recently, no missions or orders that would have necessitated paperwork in the amount Michael was filing. Michael set down his pen and looked up at Barakiel, a smile arranged on his face.

He had always been awkward around the lower-ranking angels, unsure of how to address them.

“I had some concerns,” Barakiel straightened his shoulders, meeting Michael’s eyes. Omael’s fear was hanging over his head, bothering him in a way he could not ignore. He would start with inquiries about the things he was familiar with, however. “About the Guardians.”

“Ah,” Michael’s expression seemed to shift for a moment, his hands clasped on his desk in front of him. “I was wanting to speak with you about that.”

“…You were?”

“I have been told there is no reason to have Guardians among the humans,” Michael sighed. “Our Father has changed Her mind, it seems – Humanity has not earned the right to have Guardians. They must still be watched over, but they are misbehaving children.” He shook his head, his expression painted with sadness. “You are to be reassigned, pending a decision from Her.”

Reassigned?

“Reassigned?”

Michael nodded. “How very sad it is, that they have chosen to misbehave in the ways that they have. Humanity has not earned Guardians nor has it earned many of the kindnesses we’ve extended their way.”

Barakiel’s jaw dropped, stunned at those words.

What kindnesses? Humanity had been punished, again and again, for transgressions that, as Omael had pointed out, were not actually transgressions. If there were no limits, there was no breaking them. Michael’s other words were eating at him as well. Rights were not earned. That was why they were rights. They were supposed to be without caveats and addendums and earning.

Barakiel shifted his stance, resisting the urge to take a step backward at the sudden ice he could see in Michael’s eyes. “Where am I to be reassigned?” he made himself ask, keeping his hands unclenched. He was no great warrior, not one of the endlessly trained Seraphim. He was a Chief angel, the leader of those who should have been personally assigned to humans. If it came down to a fight between him and Michael, for some reason, he would be the loser.

His wings twitched at his back.

He wished Raguel was with him. His brother was the keeper of Justice, the balance, and the knowledge of right and wrong. Raguel would know how to interact with Michael. He was currently off somewhere else, however. No notice of why or when or where – just gone. It had been centuries, if one counted time as humans did.

Barakiel wished his brother was with him.

He wished Omael was with him.

“Is there nothing that can be done?” Barakiel continued, trying to keep his voice even. Michael would pick up on any weakness in his tone, would hear any dissent, would hunt down even the smallest speck of rebellion. “To give humanity the ability to earn Guardians, I mean.”

The ice in Michael’s eyes seemed to melt at Barakiel’s words, a small smile returning to his face.

He had passed whatever test Michael had been putting him through.

He hoped he would be just as fortunate the next time they spoke. Michael had no qualms about striking down those who went against him. He had been the one to fight Lucifer directly, after all. He had cut Lucifer’s wings from his back with the same sword that was mounted to the wall beside his desk. “We will see what can be done,” Michael stood, passing his sword as he moved around his desk. “Come, brother, I will see you out. I am done for the day,” he gestured ahead of himself and Barakiel nodded.

There was a faint odor, something musty and horrifying and distantly familiar, when Michael moved towards him.

The last time he had smelled such a scent was during the war that had distanced Lucifer and his followers from Heaven. Angelic ichor— back then they had all had the scent so far ingrained into their senses that it had only brought sorrow to them. Horror had been a distant memory, at that point. There were too many things that could be considered as such for any of them to be unique any more.

And Michael stank of ichor.

Michael _reeked_ of spilled blood.

Barakiel kept up a smile until he was outside Michael’s office, down the hall and away from him.

His wings twitched at his back, his hands clenched into fists, and he glanced behind himself to make sure Michael had truly turned off the route he was on. Once he was certain, he broke into a run, as fast as he could go.

Michael’s office was at his back, the sense of it like the hounds of Hell on his heels.

Omael was tending to something quietly, his entire being so focused on it that Barakiel was able to nearly run into him, nearly bowling them both over, before he looked up. He was always at least a little out of touch with reality, a step or two behind on jokes and quips, but he was Barakiel’s favorite. “I need to speak with the Metatron,” Barakiel hissed the words out when Omael met his eyes. He was a lower rank than Omael, he could not initiate such contact on his own.

Omael, just a rank higher, could.

His eyes swept from Barakiel to what he was working on, a small nod following. “How urgently?” he waved a hand at his project and Barakiel watched as it packed itself away. Put on hold, just for the sake of him.

He knew that if any other had asked, Omael would have kept himself facing his work.

“Michael reeks of spilled blood,” he was shaking, he realized. His hands were shaking at his sides until Omael reached out and took his hands in his own. “The Metatron must know – in the absence of Raguel, Metatron must be informed. He is the keeper of justice in the absence of the true keeper.”

“Michael—” Omael choked on the name, his hands flying up to Barakiel’s face, as if he were inspecting him for damage. “He smells of blood and you were _alone_ with him?”

Barakiel nodded.

A part of why he could so readily admit that Omael was his favorite was the way the other angel reacted to him. Omael could truly not be bothered, for the most part, to care all that much for those around him. Goodness, not kindness, was what dictated alliances in Heaven. For the most part, at least. Loyalty played a part as well. Omael would drop his duties and pull Barakiel close when they were together.

Omael was his favorite because he made room for Barakiel in his existence.

The same way Barakiel made room for him.

“Here,” Omael’s hand extended to the side, a twist of his wrist and a curl of his fingers creating a key into Metatron’s quarters. It was something the higher-ranking angels, any of the ones above Barakiel’s rank, could do. “Go speak with him,” he looked almost frightened, holding Barakiel’s hand tightly for a moment. “Be safe,” he muttered.

“I will be,” Barakiel managed to smile, truly smile, for him. He kissed his cheek, his lips, his forehead, then turned and headed for the Metatron. “Michael’s misbehavior will be noted and corrected. I will make sure of it.”

X

He could only fret silently as he watched Barakiel walk away.

Michael needed to be corrected, if he was doing something wrong. Omael knew that, knew it as a soul-deep certainty. He was not sure, however, that Barakiel needed to be the one to correct him. If there was danger, Barakiel did not need to walk into it.

He stood, moving to follow his lover, only to nearly run into Sandalphon.

Behind him stood Gabriel, something odd about the way his eyes passed over Sandalphon and onto Omael. “I need to speak with you,” Gabriel’s voice was off as well, like he had not spoken in some time. “I have been away for a while – I was directed to you to be informed of what happened in my absence.”

Been away for a while?

That was putting it mildly.

Gabriel had been off and away, wherever he was, since the Garden had turned into chaos, Adam and Eve cast out. He had been missing for centuries. When other angels had started talking about Gabriel wandering off, Omael had simply listened and filed the information away for later. None of them had been certain of what was happening or why, where Gabriel had gone. Without orders to go find him, the Host of Heaven had let the matter lie – they could not break off from their orders and wander away without purpose. Gabriel had to have been commanded, they had figured.

Omael’s eyes settled on Gabriel again, a frown shaping his expression.

Gabriel’s hair was short, now.

It had never been terribly long, but he had worn it in face-framing loose curls, before. Like the art the humans had made of angels – soft and curled. Now it was cut short and brushed back over his head, out of his face. Had he been in a fight? Typically, that was the style worn by a human whose culture fought often.

There was a coldness in his eyes and his hair was different and Omael could not quite pick out the places where the differences were, but he could feel them. There was something missing about the picture Gabriel made – someone? – but he couldn’t remember. Sandalphon cleared his throat, dragging Omael’s attention to him.

“Your report?” he asked, an eyebrow raised.

Gabriel’s face went blank when he spoke. Omael looked between them, then glanced in the direction Barakiel had gone. Something was happening, something dangerous.

Gabriel continued to be blank-faced.

“Yes,” Omael nodded, turning to pull papers and parchments from where he kept them. A pencil followed, the tip of it pressed immediately to the paper when he settled back into his seat. He was not going to be able to follow after Barakiel, for now. He would just have to hope his love was safe – Michael was up to something and he reeked of blood. If he was planning a rebellion, he would have others working with him.

If he said or did something around the wrong angel, he was going to be in danger.

If he panicked and went after Barakiel, they would both be in danger.

Michael had reeked of blood and Omael had to force himself to stay seated as he thought about that. The report went from his mouth to their ears without him being quite aware of it, Omael falling back into the habits of having been a soldier. Report to your superiors, show respect, stay in line.

His mind was screaming, however, whenever Gabriel moved.

Like a puppet.

His strings were being pulled, someone else was controlling him. Omael could not remember the missing pieces, a sign of someone having Fallen, but he could remember that Gabriel had not been that mechanical. He had once been full of life, a sense of humor.

He had adored humanity, in some ways. Enough to spend time with them, eat their food and speak with them.

Enough to try and help them.

That he was so altered now made Omael worry.

Sandalphon was hovering at Gabriel’s side, supposedly there only to accompany him but his movements were an echo of Gabriel’s. Like he was the one controlling him. It made the hairs on the back of Omael’s neck stand on end – Sandalphon wasn’t as high-ranking as Gabriel, but he tended to trail after Michael and those directly under him. Omael had never truly liked him.

And now, Gabriel was staying near his side like they were tied together.

There was something off about that, about the way Gabriel could not seem to turn from him entirely, turn to look at him entirely. A fixed position next to the lower-ranking angel, unable to move away or strike out at him.

Omael felt a coldness rise up his back and he turned to look only at Gabriel.

If he concentrated, he could remember someone else at his side. A bright presence, hope and love and happiness at his side. Omael could not remember a name, a face, a rank – nothing beyond the feeling of their existence at Gabriel’s side. “Omael?” Gabriel’s voice was still off in some way. Too long without speaking or too long spent screaming, Omael could not tell.

“I’m fine,” Omael straightened up, forcing himself not to glance at Sandalphon.

Michael’s hands were all over this.

He could tell.

Michael reeked of blood and Michael had frightened Barakiel, which was really all the proof he needed that Michael had done something.

Omael cleared his throat and hoped that Barakiel would have luck contacting the Metatron and their Father. If Michael was threatening, slowly trying to take over, they would need Metatron on their side. Their Father had paid less attention to them as the centuries had passed, but surely She would pay mind to them in a worst-case scenario?

He could only pray.

And that would have to be enough, with Michael and Sandalphon breathing down their necks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So life sort of fell apart there, my schedule went weird. 
> 
> This story is slow to update but I hope I still have readers. 
> 
> Also: this takes place after Gabriel was messed with! He has already been in the Naughty Angel room, which we saw him freak out about in the first of this series! Sandalphon is a dick!   
I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter!


	3. They Inflicted Violence On You, Love

With Omael’s key in his hands, access to the Metatron was easy enough.

“And what is it you have come to see me about?” Metatron’s voice echoed across the space between them, his wings held up high. “You have accessed my quarters with a key from another angel. What is so important that you would ask another, higher-ranking, angel for a key?”

Barakiel hesitated at the door, feeling a wave of dread wash over him.

There was something about the way Metatron said those words that made him think of Michael. Michael had unsettled him, soaked in blood and harsh in some way he couldn’t put a name to. He ignored his misgivings, however – he needed to speak to the other angel, find out as much as he could. If Metatron was involved in Michael’s plot, he would need to know. Omael would believe him, would help him tell the others.

“Michael is acting out of the ordinary,” he bowed his head, showing deference. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, his gut instinct telling him to run, when Metatron put a hand on his head.

“In what way?”

He wanted out.

Now.

He should not have come here. Metatron and Michael were both dangerous. That Metatron had come towards him at his mention of Michael was a worrying thing. Angels showed their loyalty if pressed in any sort of way. Metatron making physical contact in such a way meant that his loyalty was to Michael. Loyalty was not swayed easily.

“Well?” Metatron’s voice was harsher this time.

His hand curled in Barakiel’s hair, yanking his head up. In his other hand was his sword, pulled from nothingness. Holding it to Barakiel’s neck, Metatron smiled. “Barakiel?”

“Oh, so he did show up at your quarters,” Michael’s voice was soft, his steps quiet as he crossed the room to them. “You were right after all.”

“Which angel let you in here?” Metatron glanced at Michael. “Who gave you such a key?”

Oh.

_No._

Barakiel clamped his mouth shut, wrapping his power around Omael’s key and destroying it. They would be able to tell who had made it if they found it on his person. He felt it give under his onslaught, shattering into nothing. Michael met his eyes, his own narrowing. “Clever,” he sneered. “Getting rid of the evidence. No matter, we will find out who helped you. Go through all of the angels until we find them.”

“You could join us,” Metatron shook Barakiel’s head. “We do have room on our side for another. Join us, swear your loyalty to Michael, help us erase those who go against us.” His hand came down to cup Barakiel’s cheek, sliding under his jaw and clenching tight. “You do not rank highly, but we could change that. Give you more power, a better title, higher ranks. You could work with us and then you would be better.”

“Just because I am not as powerful,” Barakiel took a deep breath. “Does not mean I am not good as I am.”

He knew he would not survive this as he was.

He was going to be erased. Struck down. Michael had been the one leading the fight against Lucifer – he had struck down his Brother, had been the one reporting the movements of the enemy. All of this, the fear he felt and the way they were acting, was only giving him a clearer picture of why that war had been fought. They had taken over Heaven, it seemed.

It only gave him clarity as to why their Father had stopped speaking to them.

She had not abandoned them. He knew, soul-deep and with a certainty he couldn’t explain, that they had done something to Her.

Michael pulled out his own sword, exposing the splash of blood across his jacket.

Barakiel’s hands shook as he tried to pull away, Michael’s fingers digging harder into his chin. “Michael—” he met his Brother’s eyes, searching for any sort of mercy. The blood was fresh, an angel Fallen or destroyed recently. Michael had to have been splashed with it in the last fraction of eternity, the stain was still wet. “Michael, _please,_” he looked to Metatron. “You’ve both gone mad.”

“I am the sanest I have ever been,” Michael smiled at him, jerking his head up further. “Barakiel, do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“We have done what we need to do,” Metatron added, clasping his hands in front of him.

Barakiel’s chest heaved, anger rising in him. “What you need to do?” he almost spat the words out, his eyes burning on the tears forming in them. “You need to attack and slay and slaughter those who do not share your opinion?” he felt a warmth in his soul, something rising. Was this what it felt like to Fall? He was angered, _furious._ Michael was corrupted in some way, a threat to those who dared to speak against him.

Threatening the entirety of the Host of Heaven.

His wings flapping gently at his back, Barakiel stood up straighter, meeting Michael’s eyes. “You’re a _threat_,” he hissed the words out. He watched Metatron’s eyes narrow, a glare aimed directly at him, but he did not care. He was outnumbered, alone with the biggest threat he had ever faced, but he did not care about that either.

If he could influence this situation, he would keep them from getting to Omael.

His beloved, the other half of his set, the existence that belonged alongside his own. Omael was the one he would defy Heaven for, the one he would move the stars for. If he could be assured of Omael’s safety, then everything he had to go through would be worth it.

“You have defied our Father’s will,” Michael’s tone was steely, his teeth flashing in a bared and menacing expression. “And for that, you will Fall. You, Barakiel, a low-ranking angel, have dared to attack two of Heaven’s highest ranking. Our backs were turned and you, you _dared_ to attack us!” he pulled his sword close to Barakiel’s throat, smiling now.

“Then make me Fall,” Barakiel laughed, shaking his head. “You will never find out who helped me into your quarters.”

The pain ripping down his back and through his mind was excruciating, seeming to tear him apart.

X

Barakiel was missing.

He had been missing for a few days, now. In how humans marked time, at least. He had gone off to see Metatron, to speak with him about Michael, and now he was missing. Michael was a problem.

Metatron had to be as well.

Omael put his face in his hands, smearing charcoal across his cheeks. His eyes were burning, fear clenching at his soul, because he was panicked. Terrified. Barakiel was missing and existence meant _nothing_ without him. He wished he hadn’t sent him in, unarmed and alone, with a key to Metatron. This was all his fault, he had lost Barakiel by being useless and careless—

His fingers, coated in charcoal, traced along his hairline, leaving black marks along his forehead. His chin was already coated, his cheeks dappled.

He couldn’t breathe without Barakiel, couldn’t think without him. They were a matched set, supposed to be together. Now, he could not find him without Michael becoming suspicious. Heaven was rising in awareness of something, sentinels being set at the edges. Something done in the wrong manner could result in destruction and then, wherever Barakiel was, he would be lost forever. Omael could not leave to find him without putting them both in even further danger.

If Barakiel was even still alive.

Angels were hard to kill, but if Michael was pressed, he knew how. He’d had the highest kill count of those who had sided with Lucifer in the first war. The rolling expanse of Heaven had been stained with the blood of those who had Fallen, who had fought against the Host. For all Omael knew, Barakiel could already be dead.

And it was all his fault.

Michael could have killed Barakiel immediately. Metatron could have killed Barakiel – if he was working in league with Michael, he would know how to tear an angel apart. Angels had fallen en masse, before, and they had been behind it. Michael had been the front of the war, dragging Gabriel with him.

And that was another thing.

Gabriel had a constant shadow, these days. Sandalphon followed his every move, dogged his footsteps, was just a step behind him. Once, Omael could remember, Gabriel had been calm and kind – he didn’t remember why the Archangel was not that way now, but he was harder. Darker. Meaner and with a cruel streak blooming in his soul.

Omael sat up straight, feeling something in his chest burning. His eyes were hurting, his back sore.

He could feel his memories slipping.

Barakiel had disappeared and now he could feel his memories slipping. “No,” he muttered, his knuckles turning white as he clutched at the front of his robes. “No, no,_ no!”_

Omael lunged across his work table, scrabbling to gather a stick of charcoal to his hands, a piece of parchment following shortly behind. “No,” he groaned, closing his eyes for a moment. He had to keep him, had to _remember, _had to find a way to _remember_ and keep _something—_

“Barakiel,” he whispered as he sketched across the parchment, broad strokes forming Barakiel’s face. His eyes, his eyes had always been such a beautiful light blue, his cheekbones high and beautiful, his nose rounded at the end. He had been Omael’s favorite and he had been overjoyed when the other angel had accepted a romance between them. He had been horrible at showing it, really, and if the memories had not started to slip away, he might have wondered if this was a result of his love feeling unappreciated.

But his memories had started to drain away, had been dragged from his head.

And he knew that Michael was behind this.

Omael kept drawing Barakiel until his hand cramped, his charcoal a fragile nub of darkness at the tip of his finger. His hands were blackened, his arms stained to the elbow. All of his parchments and papers bore Barakiel’s face, his eyes, his lips, his hands – anything to keep him, anything to keep everything that he could.

The Fallen were the only ones that the Hosts of Heaven were not allowed to remember.

Omael sat in the middle of his quarters, surrounded by fragments of the face he was frantic to remember, and he screamed until his throat was sore. Cried until the tears stained his skin, rubbed his cheeks raw with the salt. The Fallen were unremembered.

_Only_ the Fallen.

Normally, it took weeks, months, a small age, for the Fallen to be forgotten. To have Barakiel disappearing from his mind so quickly—

Omael paused.

His thoughts had stopped.

What had he been thinking?

The charcoal on his hands confused him, as did the stacks and stacks of drawings. Who had he been drawing?

Why had he been drawing them?

With a soft and puzzled noise, Omael stood and gathered the sketches. They were rather good, he thought, shuffling them together and storing them away. Good details.

He settled himself at his desk.

He had paperwork to do.

A gentle knock at the door caught his attention, making him look up from his papers. 

Michael walked in, hands curled behind his back. His hair was slightly mussed, stray pieces whisping out at the edges. He smiled and put a hand on Omael’s desk. “There have been reports of a demon causing a commotion down on Earth,” Michael’s smile set him on edge. “I would like you to go investigate.”

“A demon?” Omael lifted his head, meeting Michael’s eyes. There was a faint rush of worry in doing so, but it was gone in moments.

He gave it no thought.

“Yes,” Michael nodded. “And as I have said – I would like for you to go investigate it. It is something of a rush job. The demon is new and has been causing chaos lately.” He inspected his nails, humming softly. “If the problem could be contained, then that would be good. What would be better is execution.”

“Execution…” Omael nodded, pushing his papers away. “I will see to it, Michael.”

Michael reached out and patted his cheek, smiling again. His teeth were hidden but it felt like a predator luring prey into a safe-seeming spot before devouring it and Omael did not know why. He shivered.

“I expect you to leave soon,” Michael turned away, leaving the room.

A cold breeze seemed to follow in his wake, making Omael shiver.

A new demon?

Missions like this were always interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd kick my own ass if I could manage such a thing. Things are changing, life is continuing on, I've been medicated...Things are slowly getting better. 
> 
> And no one is going to like what happens next in this story. Omael certainly isn't. Also: Does anyone remember Beelzebub thinking about how their main demons Fell? That's very important.


	4. My Broken Soul Once More Enslaved

Humanity had evolved.

New clothes, new standards, new buildings and foods and cultures. They were becoming a fully realized people – living higher above where they had started. They had started gathering information and sharing it. The world itself was becoming more connected. Humanity was watching over itself, guiding itself, and he almost admired them for it.

He could feel the demonic presence coming towards him before he’d even had a moment to look for it.

Omael could only watch as the demon approached him. “You look familiar,” a voice called out. He turned to look, coming face-to-face with a dark-skinned demon. They had light blue eyes, set in a handsome face.

“I don’t think that is a good thing,” Omael clasped his hands behind his back.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” the demon smirked, his bright eyes focused on Omael’s face as he leaned in closer, his hands clasped behind his back. “When an angel appears familiar – us demons did all start as angels, I suppose, it could be a lingering memory.” One of his hands came up and traced a shape over Omael’s cheek, his sharp nail digging in and drawing blood. “But you don’t seem like that.”

“Get your hands off of me,” Omael felt his nose scrunch up, disgust bubbling in his stomach.

Not, as he would have thought, over the touch itself – the scent of blood was nauseating. The demon’s touch was oddly comforting, comfortable, and he held still as those light blue eyes studied his face. “Familiarity is indeed an odd trait,” he muttered. “The Fallen are unremembered.”

“And Heaven is the side of _good_,” the demon laughed.

“What is your name?”

“Ligur,” the demon drew away from him, circling slowly. Those eyes, the color of the first blue at dawn, the water of a lake at the clearest source, continued to study him. He felt Ligur’s gaze lingering on him, on his back and lower, and it made his face flush. “Such a pretty color,” Ligur smirked as he came back around to Omael’s front. “Tell me, angel,” his hand curled around Omael’s chin. “How does an angel like yourself come to be down here?”

“An order from a higher-up,” Omael swallowed his nerves, doing his best not to react to the demon’s hands on his body. “A mission to take care of a demon, down here.”

“Oh, that must mean me,” Ligur’s smirk turned down at the corners. The flash and flicker of anger in his eyes was enough to make Omael tense up. His hand cupped Omael’s chin, dragging him down until they were eye-to-eye. “I will make Heaven _scream_ for the pain they’ve inflicted on those who dwell down below. We are treated as nothing, as worthless and useless, dear angel. Heaven treats those they do not hold in high regard like vermin – to be exterminated, nothing less than that.”

“Exterminated—”

“You,” Ligur laughed, stroking fingers across Omael’s jaw. “You are almost enough to make me call off the vengeance I feel. To make me want to go against the war-cries I hear in Hell.” He leaned in closer, something about him grabbing and holding Omael’s attention. He was shorter than him, at least a head shorter, but there was something about him, the presence of him.

Not a threat, not dangerous to him, but drawing him in.

His mind sprawling out and away from him, Omael didn’t notice Ligur moving until the demon was pressed against him, the heat of Hell burning into his core. “I can see the false edges of your memories,” Ligur spoke softly, running his hand up Omael’s spine. “Someone tampered with you.”

“I-“

“Tell me,” Ligur’s voice was soft, still, the lure of a predator. “Does Heaven treat all of its own in this way? Rips apart your mind, pulls at your memories?”

Omael gasped as Ligur’s hand curled around the back of his neck, sharp nails pressing into the skin. “You…” he sighed, his eyes falling closed. “Let…”

His vision blacked out for a moment, the sound of humming filling his mind.

The haze in his mind lifted for a minute, blue eyes meeting his own in his memories. Fire raced along his arms, his spine going stiff as he choked on nothingness, the emptiness of his mind crawling down his throat. Warm hands curled around his cheeks, anchoring him to reality instead of letting him spiral off into his mind.

When he could breathe again, his hands were clenched tightly in his hair.

His entire body was trembling.

Ligur was crouched in front of him, a hand holding his chin gently, at odds with how he’d been acting earlier. “Your aching heart is screaming,” he whispered. “But I cannot tell you who it screams for. The memories are locked away.” He went stiff, his hand on Omael’s chest. “Tell me – who do you miss so much that your very existence is screaming out for them?” he shuddered, his claws digging into Omael’s chest, frissons of panic rolling through both of them. His eyes closed, slammed shut. When he opened them again, the light blue had been replaced. They were orange now, still bright but altered. “They sent you with a change for me,” he hissed out, pushing Omael away.

Omael hit the earth, panting as the connection between them broke. “I was not aware of the changes they sent for you,” he winced, feeling his entire body shake.

Ligur hissed again, shaking his head and stepping further back, his teeth exposed in a blunt threat. “Someone is altering this world,” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. “They’ve ripped apart the roots of things, ripped apart minds and memories – there are false orders in place, false missions.” He held up a hand, claws sharp and dark. “They sent you to be destroyed.”

He laughed, staring down at Omael.

His eyes burned into his mind, into his very soul – the depths of his being would forever remember those eyes, he thought as the demon towered over him. The difference in their height no longer mattered.

Ligur was a demon, a vision of destruction above him.

With a flick of his wrist, Omael lurched to his feet, his sword appearing in his hand. He rushed at Ligur, pressing it to his throat, toppling over with him. His wings spread behind him, flared and ready at a moment’s notice. “I will not be,” he growled the words out.

Something in Ligur’s expression was almost impressed. It was nearly drowned out by the want that tugged at both of them, Ligur’s hand coming to rest on Omael’s thigh.

“Good,” he hissed, leaning up and brushing their mouths together.

Before he could do anything he might regret, Omael took off, fleeing back to Heaven. He did not stop until he was back in his quarters once more, a hand pressed against his chest. His heart, the simulacre of a human’s, was beating so fast he could almost not feel the pauses between. Being that close to a demon had never felt like that, before. He was experienced with them, had fought in the war against Lucifer and his traitors – he had never before felt that close to one. That trapped. That freed.

Everything was a contradiction and he would not be able to complete his mission.

He needed to speak with Gabriel.

Hesitating at that thought, Omael shook his head. Not Gabriel – why would he report to Gabriel? Michael.

He needed to speak with Michael.

The journey to his Brother’s quarters was quick enough, easy enough. He was powerful enough to create a key to access them and he stepped inside when it was allowed. “I cannot complete that mission,” he spoke up before Michael could open his mouth.

“Hm,” Michael stood from his desk, gesturing for Omael to follow. “Can you tell me why?”

He led the way through the halls and expanses of Heaven, a drifting and winding path that, had Omael been paying enough attention, would have set off alarms in his mind. Instead, Omael explained what had happened with the demon Ligur, hesitating before leaving out what had been said. As they came across the point Omael had once upon a time used to watch over humanity, Michael sighed.

“I had hoped, with the removal of Barakiel, that you would simply fall in line,” Michael’s voice was soft, though it carried no kindness in it. “Omael, you are hurting our Father with your disobedience.”

“I am—”

“You do not follow orders,” Michael still did not look at him. “You corrupt yourself. You disobey orders.”

The silence rang out around them, almost deafening as Omael realized something. There was something missing – he had never seen this part of Heaven this empty, had never seen it devoid of every angel possible. Too late, it occurred to him that they were alone together. The demon Ligur’s words echoed in his mind and he felt _fear_. It tore through him as he turned to look at his Brother.

“Michael,” Omael’s voice was thick with dread as he looked around the emptiness of Heaven. “Where have our brothers and sisters gone?”

Michael’s eyes darted up to look at him, a harsh sort of steel before they softened. “Omael,” he stood up from where he sat, sliding his sword away. “There is something I must bring up to you. I am certain you’ve noticed the way things are changing, the way the world is shaping itself.” He paused, tugging at the edges of his coat. There was something dark at the cuff of his sleeve, something that made Omael hesitate.

Seeing where his gaze was, Michael glanced down as well. “Hm.” He frowned. “It is unfortunate that this throws such a wrench in things.”

“Michael,” Omael stood his ground. “What is happening?”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as a line of angels entered the area – Sandalphon and Uriel and Halon at the head of the pack. “I’ve been…Working on something,” Michael’s face twisted with something Omael couldn’t identify. It sent a shudder of fear down his spine, however. “An endeavor which would, in time, prove most fruitful for those who join me. You are, as of now, one of the more minor angels. I could change that.”

**Minor?**

“Minor?” Omael’s upper lip curled back. “Just because I’m not as important as you—”

“I meant no offense,” Michael held up a hand, smirking.

“…What do you mean, change it?”

“I mean,” Michael stepped closer, his arm held out. The movement revealed the spatter of darkness on his side, splashed across his coat and the sheath of his sword. “I will have the power to give you more power of your own, soon. A bigger job, a better title. All you would need to do is back me up when I ask it of you.”

The scent of angelic ichor flooded Omael’s senses, the dark stains on Michael’s clothing the only clue he needed.

“No,” he shook his head. “No.”

Michael’s face twisted angrily. “A pity.” He sneered, all humor dropping from his expression. “Then I suppose your trial is to be held now.”

He unsheathed his sword and held it to Omael’s throat. “You have defied the will of our Father,” he whispered. “And for that, I sentence you to Fall.”

Omael glanced at the others, his gaze falling to his own side as he tried to remember once again. The space next to him should have been occupied, he thought. He closed his eyes, shook his head, then looked at Michael. “I’ve defied your will,” he sneered, his upper lip peeling back. “Not the will of our Father – She is silent. Her silence is not of Her making, I know that much.” He leaned in, his height allowing him to tower over Michael. “And the blood on your clothes is enough of a giveaway.”

Michael’s eyes flashed and he shoved Omael back, following closely as his back struck the floor, his head bouncing off and back again. “Be silent,” Michael’s own sneer was ugly, his eyes narrowed.

And then Omael was falling.

When he opened his eyes, he was surrounded by darkness.

It was cold and cramped, the walls slick with something, and he could hear shrieking in the distance. Footsteps dragged his attention away from his surroundings and he looked up to see a somewhat short demon with black hair and light eyes, their hands clasped together behind their back. “A newly Fallen,” they spoke softly, with an undercurrent of barely-held temper.

At their side, walking just behind them, was a demon who looked familiar, somehow. He couldn’t remember his own name, couldn’t remember anything other than why he had Fallen:

Disobedience. Refusing orders.

The shorter demon almost smiled, turning their head just enough to put the other demon in their sight. “Ligur,” they stepped aside. “You will help train the new arrival. Find out his talents.” They turned on their heel, turning back for a second. “Welcome to the ranks of Hell,” they sounded almost amused. “Ligur.”

“Lord Beelzebub.” Ligur held out a hand, helping him to his feet. “What should we call you?”

Lord Beelzebub walked away again, leaving the two of them together.

He got to his feet, staring down as Ligur put a bracing hand on his waist when he nearly fell again. “O—” he stopped, blinked a few times, then frowned. “I’m…Hastur.” He tried the name out again, feeling how it slipped off of his tongue, how the shape of it tasted. His hair was soaked in blood, trickles of it running down his neck, his mouth tasted like ozone and copper.

Clenching his hands into fists, Hastur nodded. “Hastur,” he said again, lifting his chin.

Ligur’s eyes, bright orange and somehow familiar, tugging at something deep in his chest, lit up. “Must obey orders, especially Lord Beelzebub’s,” he grinned and there was nothing particularly nice about it, more of a baring of teeth than an actual smile. “Let’s find out what you can do.”

His hand was still clasped in Hastur’s as they walked deeper into Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh boy. 
> 
> OoooOooh Boy. 
> 
> We've reached a part I've been excited about for a while. Sorry about being gone for so long -- A LOT of things happened in my life, including escaping an abusive home and moving to an entirely new area, as well as starting a new job and finally being on the right sleeping schedule that my natural body clock wants.
> 
> Anyway. Ligur and Omael meet and Omael Flips Out about it. This is because Michael screwed up. This story is also not close to the end, yet. We get to explore their lives as demons and find out more about Michael's back-channels of information.  
Everything is different and a little scary and with the outbreak- I'm worried about my living situation but it's going well so far.


	5. Don't Threaten Me With A Good Time

Hell held very few surprises.

The place was dark and dreary, a cold sort of emptiness to it that was still somehow warmer than the Heaven he remembered. Hastur looked around himself, narrowing his eyes as a couple of demons peered out at him from the darkness.

Hell at least was populated – nothing like the empty, cold, distance of Heaven. The Fallen clustered together in corners, skulked in hallways. There was no pompous airs, no noses lifted in sneers as he walked past. He had been here for some time, now, simply learning his new environment. There was nothing kind about Lord Beelzebub, he had been told, but there was a fraction of understanding. He would not be sent on missions, on jaunts, on any sort of away, until they felt he was ready.

And that was what this was.

He entered their throne room, following behind Ligur. The older demon had simply arrived at his door, beckoning him forward with a small nod. He had gone willingly, followed along. He was ready, he knew. The blood that had dripped from his head had turned into a sort of slime, an ooze of green muck that coated his skin. The frog had shown up not long after that, his animal aspect in full form.

Dagon had demanded knowledge of what he dreamed of, when it had arrived.

Ligur stopped in his tracks, dragging Hastur back to the present moment. Lord Beelzebub was speaking quietly with Dagon, their head turned towards the record-keeper. Dagon had his usual papers in his hands, nodding intently.

Waiting to be acknowledged, Hastur and Ligur stood still.

“Your first mission,” Lord Beelzebub peered down at him from their throne, Dagon leaving the room. “Is to burn the library that humanity has cultivated. Or to make it burn. Influence the right people and things will happen the way you want them to.” They leaned forward in their seat, one leg crossed over the other. Their hands gripped the arms of their throne, pulling them upright. “A repository of knowledge that large must be destroyed. Humanity deserves nothing of the sort – and there are secrets being held there. Secrets that must not get out.”

Hastur nodded, drawing himself up taller.

Fire burned in his palms, his eyes dark and his wings warped. There had been many physical changes since his Fall, he had been told. He did not remember most of them, time blurring around him. He could reasonably pin days down when it came to Ligur, however.

“I understand, m’lord,” Hastur bowed his head, a hand to his chest.

Lord Beelzebub dismissed them both with a wave of their hand, sitting back in their throne once more.

As quickly as they had arrived, they left.

With a small sideways glance, Ligur looked at him. He wore a small smile, his bright orange eyes seeming to flare with the fires of Hell. “This is an enormous responsibility,” he said, his voice soft. “Truly, an honor. Our Lord places their trust in you for such a mission,” he ducked his head down, leading the way back to Hastur’s room. “If you would not mind the company, I will come with you.”

“I…” Hastur looked down at him, at the coloring of his cheeks. “You may.”

Ligur nodded. He looked around, seeming to be deciding on something, before he pushed Hastur up against a wall. His lips were hot against Hastur’s, the flash and flare of the fire Hastur wielded so easily. “I have been wanting to do this for some time,” he whispered, sharp nails dragging down the taller demon’s back. Even through his clothing, Hastur could feel the tips of his claws. “I will come with you for this mission. If you do not mind, I will follow you to your room afterwards,” he glanced up, eyes burning. “There are things I would explore with you.”

“First we must attend to our mission,” Hastur took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. There would be time for finding out how to make Ligur cry out, he did not need to dwell on it just yet. “The library of Alexandria must be destroyed.”

“Understandable,” Ligur leaned up again, pressing a small kiss to the corner of Hastur’s mouth. “But we will have our time after that.”

The mission had started out well.

The library burned, the humans fled. Their screams had echoed into the darkness and try as they might, they could not save their collection of knowledge. Hastur laughed as it burned, watching sparks fly up into the dark sky. It almost felt like an affront to their creator, he thought. Rubbing it in Her face – look at me, look at my dangerous powers, look at my dirty hands all over your creation.

Ligur stood next to him, eyes reflecting the flames.

The smile on his face was somehow a more pleasing sight than the burning building. The chaos of the humans scrambling around was almost forgotten as Hastur stared at him. “You’ve done well,” Ligur spoke when he turned to look at Hastur. “Lord Beelzebub will be pleased.”

A thrill ran up Hastur’s spine as Ligur moved closer, a hand brushing over his back. His wings twitched, watching as Ligur exposed his own.

They were tatty at the edges, a trait he had once explained as a mark of his behavior. Dagon had explained once, mentioned that it was because Ligur got into fights often. He had not always fit neatly into Hell, Dagon had said. Ligur had, apparently, only started getting along with other demons in any sort of way once Hastur had shown up.

Before he knew it, Hastur had sunk into the feeling of Ligur against him, hands brushing delicately over every part of him that could be reached.

The fluttering of wings dragged his attention, however, and when he looked up he saw something that made the world go cold. An angel stood behind Ligur, an odd expression on his face as he stared at the both of them. Hastur knew him – Michael. He had been warned.

Feeling his upper lip curl back, Hastur twisted around Ligur, putting the smaller demon at his back. “Angel,” he sneered the word out like a curse.

Ligur’s hand curled around his arm, an anchor of sorts.

“Hastur, was it?” Michael’s head tilted to one side, his eyes narrowing. A sword appeared in his hand, a few steps slowly bringing him closer. “Hastur and Ligur.” There was something in the way he said their names, something that seemed irritated. He seemed to relax, his sword drooping at his side. “The two of you are an interesting story in Heaven. Two growths with no guards against them, no pruning. Uncontrolled.”

He stepped forward again, his eyes seeming friendly for a half-second, though the sight only made Hastur swing his arm out more, guiding Ligur even further back.

There was something in him that screamed to protect the other demon.

Something soul-deep, a quiet insistence that this was where he was supposed to be. Ligur was supposed to be at his side. An arc of light coming off of Michael made him pause, his eyes closing for a moment. In that moment, he could remember something else. Somewhere else.

Some other time.

The names Omael and Barakiel flashed through his mind, though he had nothing to connect them to. His hands felt numb, his legs shaking. A torrential rain of fear dragged at him.

Hastur stood up against it, breathing through the terror that tried to take him down.

“I see you have learned no lessons,” Michael’s voice was cold. Empty. There was no kindness in him as he halted in place, his sword glinting dangerously in the flickering light of the dying fire. The library still burned, a haunting backdrop to the events playing out for them. “I specifically sent the two of you away so you would _learn_ and yet—” he sighed, shaking his head. “But I suppose stubbornness cannot be bred out so quickly.”

He lunged forward, the blade of his sword sliding neatly across Hastur’s throat.

The metal sang as it burned against his skin, the Holy aura of Heaven ripping into him. Hastur gasped, wavering, but managed to stay on his feet. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if he let Michael near Ligur that something was going to happen to him. Hell held no kindness, no safety, but he had managed to find a dreg of it.

He would protect it.

Michael made an unimpressed noise, meeting Hastur’s eyes. “Hm,” he swung his own arm out, knocking his elbow into Hastur’s head. “I suppose my work with memories must be improved upon. Clearly it must – the two of you are still so dedicated to each other.”

Hastur hit the ground, all of the air robbed from him.

His wings twitched, fluttering almost-gently, until someone grabbed ahold of them and dragged him away from Ligur.

Ligur, who Michael had in a choking grip with Hastur managed to look up again. “Let him _GO!” _Hastur snarled the words out, choking on his own tongue. Escaping whoever held him back was impossible, he discovered. Ligur was limp in Michael’s hand, his eyes rolling back in his head. More of that strange light arced from Michael to Ligur, playing like lightning around his face.

His lizard, atop his head, was curled up in as small of a ball as possible.

Hastur snarled again, wordless this time, trying to throw himself out of captivity. He didn’t care if he tore his wings, Ligur was in _danger_, he needed to _help,_ he couldn’t let him get taken away _again—_

That thought would have made him pause, ordinarily, but his instincts were screaming at him. His wings didn’t matter if destroying them meant he could save Ligur. The darkness in his mind rose up to meet him when the sharp hilt of a sword met the back of his head.

With one last noise, Hastur collapsed to the ground.

When he woke up again, he was standing in front of the entrance of Hell.

Ligur stood next to him, his eyes unfocused. His head rolled, gentle swaying movements, before he seemed to snap out of it. A sharp intake of breath had him looking up at Hastur. “You’ve succeeded in your mission,” he spoke flatly.

Hastur frowned, blinking a couple of times as he nodded. “The library is destroyed.”

“Lord Beelzebub will be pleased,” Ligur leaned in closer, as if to touch Hastur, before he swayed back. With an odd expression, he stepped away, heading into Hell.

Hastur paused, thinking.

He remembered his mission, the bright light of the fire in Alexandria. The screams of humanity. The loss of knowledge. How much it would set humanity back.

And then the trip back to Hell.

Where they were now.

Shaking his head, Hastur followed after Ligur.

Mission complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I know some people are going to be upset about what happens in this chapter. 
> 
> I'm mostly back! Life is settling down a little -- I'm a necessary worker at a new job I actually like.


	6. I Forgot What You Feel Like (But I'm Not Going To Think About That)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit to add: Does anyone want the playlists I put together for this series? I made one for Ineffable Bureaucracy and one for the Maggot Husbands. I'm working on one for Ineffable Husbands.
> 
> 2nd Edit:  
I am Krasimer on Spotify. I have three playlists: Aziraphale and Crowley, Hastur and Ligur, Beelzebub and Gabriel. 
> 
> [Aziraphale and Crowley](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/10DFnkNRudoyIk8FOwdMEN)   
[ Hastur and Ligur ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4QY6pNzNwxPMZemO61Kius)   
[ Beelzebub and Gabriel ](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5FeKUv8GDguhYPlZOKEyTN)

His first mission had been a success.

Lauded in Hell, praised however faintly by Lord Beelzebub. Hell was full of demons who stared at him as he passed and Hastur was a rising star of some sorts. He only needed to jerk his head a little too hard at another demon and he would gain a clear space around him. The only one who stayed near him was Ligur, who trailed in his wake.

The other demon was quieter, now. Had been since Hastur’s first mission.

Their second came, followed by their third and fourth. Hastur grew in renown, always shadowed by Ligur. Every time he watched Ligur move, a gnawing hunger of a sort grew within him, his hands aching as he watched every small smirk, every move the other made. On what might have been their eighth mission together, Hastur broke.

He pinned Ligur against a wall, pressing into the shorter demon’s space, feeling the heat of him.

His chameleon blinked slowly at Hastur and Ligur looked up at him, saying nothing. He tilted his head, to the side and up. The motion exposed a fraction of his throat and Hastur leaned in, nuzzling against the patch of skin. “There is something about you,” he muttered. This was the first time they had done this, he thought as he moved.

There was something about that thought that felt off, but he ignored it.

“I had wondered if you were going to say something,” Ligur hissed the words out, a hand sliding up Hastur’s back. His fingers were claws, counting the knobs in Hastur’s spine. “I would have welcomed this earlier.” He tilted his head further back, a low chuckle escaping him when Hastur scraped his teeth over Ligur’s throat. Ligur slid his leg in between Hastur’s, yanking him closer until they both groaned, their animal aspects croaking and hissing.

“You should have said something,” Hastur growled the words, giving a sharp nip at the base of Ligur’s throat.

That night, they stayed in the same room, breathing the same air. Ligur slept with his arm thrown over Hastur’s back, curled around him, his forehead against Hastur’s. Rumors flew easily in Hell, too many used to backstabbing to give up the practice, but Hastur didn’t care.

Ligur had allowed him close.

They had shared their bodies, shared their spaces. There was more trust between them than between any other demons in Hell. Demons didn’t trust, didn’t share. They were an anomaly, drifting towards each other.

He could exist like this.

A mission was in America.

Hastur was to destroy the budding city surrounding them in whatever way he saw fit. The goal was not death so much as it was destruction.

The city burned.

His mind went blank.

He arrived back in Hell.

Ligur followed.

They began a physical relationship.

A mission.

A city in chaos.

His mind gone blank.

Ligur drew away from him, brushing him off when he lingered close.

The ship rocked gently beneath them.

“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” Ligur spoke quietly, his lips barely moving as he walked next to Hastur. “The noise that humans have come to be attached to. They call it music.”

“It’s just noise,” Hastur agreed.

The humans surrounding them were laughing and smiling, some of them dancing, though it looked more like twitching oddly. There were various styles of clothing, various styles of hats, and Hastur looked around and thought it all looked ridiculously complicated. “Isn’t much of a party,” he muttered.

“When they hit the iceberg, it will be,” Ligur offered, glancing up at him. It sounded almost consolatory.

Hastur mulled the words over, nodding slowly. His mind moved sluggishly, like it had frozen over at one point and never quite thawed out again. “Proper party, then,” he agreed. He looked up, his eyes lingering on the lifesaver that named the ship as the HMS Titanic. “Less annoying than all this.”

“Hm,” Ligur seemed to agree.

He froze in his steps, stopped in his stride.

The lack of motion sent a spike of fear through Hastur, even though he couldn’t identify the reason for it. His mind went hazy, a dull roar filling his ears. Beyond that was the soft sound of a faint ringing. Without knowing why, Hastur let his eyes drift shut. Hands on his back, tugging at his wings, did not even slightly phase him. He hated the feeling, how invasive it was, but he couldn’t bring himself to fight against it.

The sensation almost felt normal by now.

He couldn’t even make himself examine that thought – as far as he knew, this had never happened before.

“You are _finally_ learning,” a voice came from one side of him and Hastur felt his head roll back. “Good.”

His eyes opened a fraction, a spike of panic breaking through the numbness as he heard Ligur let out a soft noise of protest. The Archangel Michael stood in front of Ligur, both of his hands on Ligur’s head. Hastur couldn’t even find the strength to attempt to break free. The ship was sinking now, he faintly realized. The musicians stood, still playing their songs with terror on their faces. Michael hummed along, glancing back at Hastur. “Nearer my God to thee,” his mouth crooked into a smile, his hands still clamped over Ligur’s temples.

For a moment, Hastur had an image of himself dressed in angelic robes, fists clenched in anger as he stared Michael down. Refused to bow to his commands. Other images flashed through his mind – Ligur, panting and laughing, cheeks flushed. Their bodies pressed together. Ligur, smiling at a small joke Hastur had made.

Ligur, happy.

Ligur, in the same bed as him.

Ligur.

_Ligur._

_…Barakiel._

Just as that thought hit, Hastur’s eyes rolled back in his head.

“Fifteen hundred deceased,” Lord Beelzebub read off of the report they held.

Hastur stood before them, head lifted proudly. “The captain of the ship was easily tempted,” he chuckled, his voice wheezing. “Pride was his downfall. He ignored the warnings, refused to slow down. He tried to change his decisions later, only to fail in that as well. The lifeboats were released, half-full, and that decision alone added several hundred more to the total numbers of the dead.”

The demons surrounding them cheered and whooped.

“Humanity is disheartened,” Hastur continued. “The number of the dead from this incident has them frightened, mourning and terrified. The captain himself got to watch as others died, punishment meted out by his own sins.”

“Successful,” Beelzebub nodded.

Dagon wrote notes at their side, chuckling quietly. His teeth were sharp, glinting in the dim light of Hell. “A wonderful performance,” he added in. “Astounding. Inspiring, almost.”

Beelzebub looked down at him from their throne, nodding again. “Very well. You are dismissed,” they waved a hand, peering down at Dagon’s notes. Hastur nodded as well, turning and making his way out of the throne room. Ligur followed along, eyes cast towards the ground. When Hastur looked down at him, head tilted, Ligur looked up at him.

“I would say that was a good job,” he smirked. “But there is no good in Hell.”

Hastur watched him move, the way his hands slid easily into his pockets, and he _wanted_.

But Ligur had never given any indication that the wanting would be allowed. “There is no good anywhere,” he muttered. “We will prove it.”

“We will prove it,” Ligur stayed at his side.

Close enough to touch.

Hastur shoved his own hands into his pockets, nose wrinkling as he pushed his thoughts away.

They walked on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. So...
> 
> Michael is altering memories until Hastur and Ligur are so different and don’t remember. 
> 
> To answer a question that might pop up for the few people who read this: This is still going, we are continuing to write into the timeline of the show, and do you know what I get to tackle in a few chapters? 
> 
> If you answered, "The scene where Hastur has to witness the puddle of Ligur", you are correct.
> 
> Also: Yes, Hastur caused the Titanic to sink. It's a headcanon I hold dear.

**Author's Note:**

> So who wanted Hastur and Ligur backstories for this series? I was going to give myself a week or two before working on this and posting anything but then the idea hit me on how to write this part and I just sort of...Dove into it. 
> 
> So yeah. Have this. First chapter of the three I've got written so far. I've got almost 4K written for this part, so far. It might end up matching the first in the series for word count.


End file.
